A Study in Grief
by Tia-Pixie
Summary: Harry Watson is dead, suicide. John seems totally blocked off from his grief and Sherlock doesn't understand any of it at all. Mention of death/suicide nothing graphic. AU as of series 3. COMPLETE
1. Frustration

_**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or original storylines of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC television series Sherlock. All content expect this particular story belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **_

**A/N: Okay so I absolutely adore the new Sherlock programme on BBC1 and cannot believe they only did three episodes, I'm sure they'll do more but come one! What were they thinking of course Martin Freeman + Benedict Cumberbatch would be a success! Especially with a writer like Stephen Moffat! Anyway, the following story is based off this idea I had whilst re-watching the first episode i.e. John's sister dying. I'm not sure why I decided to make it suicide but I'm hoping it works. Anyway, hard as I've tried, ****I think Sherlock is totally OOC ****but hopefully you won't. Right now I'm just putting a feeler out for whether people like this, I have another chapter ready and waiting but since it'll probably be three chapters I wanted to see if it was worth continuing. **

**This is set after the series finishes because come on! We all know they aren't dead, and hands up everyone who sat there and thought wtf? When that guy said his name was 'Jim Moriarty'? I mean, what was that about? We all know who Moriarty is don't we kids?**

**Um, anyway as always, PLEASE read and review. Reviews are free, non-fattening and make me go squeeee. So, enjoy and please review. X**

"That is...tragic" It was said thoughtfully but betrayed no emotion.

Lestrade grimaced. "I'm sorry, John." He rose from his seat and squeezed the doctor's uninjured shoulder, nodding at his sergeant, Sally Donovan that it was time to go.

She stepped forward and opened her mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, settling for what she hoped was a consoling smile and followed the inspector out. "We...we really are sorry for your loss, John." To which Watson gave a confused gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

"Thanks."

There followed a silence in which Mrs Hudson wrung her hands together and watched John, biting her lip. John gazed at the door through which the police officers had left, sighed once then resumed reading his discarded newspaper as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Alarmed, the landlady quickly suggested a cup of tea - "Just this once mind!" and hurried into the kitchen area of the flat, almost bumping into the gangling young man concealed inside it.

"_Sherlock_! What are you doing in here?" She scolded quietly so as not to disturb John. The man cocked his head to one side in thought, frowning as though he had not understood the question.

"Doing, Mrs Hudson?" He seemed to consider his answer. "I suppose since I am doing only what is required for my continued survival, the generally accepted response would be 'nothing' which is of course ridiculous because even if I were dead I would still be decomposing – my entire existence is predicated upon my doing _something_ or else I would cease to exist at all but since I suspect your question was, in fact, rhetorical and therefore requires an equally pointless reply, I shall reply as any idiot would say and tell you that I am indeed doing 'nothing at all'."

The woman seemed as if she would scold him once more but instead shook her head and busied herself with the tea. "His sister is dead, dear." She said quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the sounds of the boiling kettle.

"I know. Good God, Mrs Hudson, I was stood not ten feet away from him when the wretched woman told him." Incredulity and perhaps condescension laced his words, which referred to Donovan who had in fact (and contrary to all expectations), delivered the news to Watson with surprising tact.

"He will need your help, Sherlock. He might need to talk to you, you know." She advised him gently.

"Me?" The man seemed alarmed at the very idea, as if the thought had not occurred to him that his flatmate (friend?) might wish to speak to him on the matter of his sister's death.

"It was suicide, after all." She continued on as if she hadn't heard the unusual display of nerves. "And I know what you're thinking, Sherlock, but I want you to leave it be all right? It isn't decent, the way you think about these things, especially not this one." She chided fondly, pouring tea into mugs with her back to him. His eyes had indeed taken on that certain gleam that always preceded his manic investigations of seemingly ordinary cases. He visibly slumped at her words.

Suddenly, it seemed a thought had occurred and he straightened, opening his mouth, the gleam returning tenfold.

"SHERLOCK, NO!" This inspired a sort of intense glare between them, marred only by Sherlock's pale face breaking into sly grin. "NO!" She said firmly, shaking a teaspoon at him. She could almost swear she saw him pout before his usual mask of bored melancholy replaced it. Handing one mug to Holmes, Mrs Hudson paused at the doorway and gazed at him almost pityingly "Try to understand, dear."

* * *

Sherlock strode purposefully out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, rummaging in the clutter and finally slapping three nicotine patches onto his arm. There was a definite pout on his face now as he flung himself onto the bed. Understand indeed! What was there to understand? John hadn't gotten on with his sister, hadn't spoken to him in months – she was already as good as dead to him anyway! He sat up suddenly, clenching his hands to his eyes in frustration. There was no logic to this! There was no analysis to be done! There was no interesting titbit in her suicide that suggested murder even to him, her death was of no importance!

So why did he keep thinking about it? Or about Mycroft. Or John. A vague unsettled feeling had come upon him quite suddenly, it was…unpleasant to say the least. A sort of hollow feeling that he didn't really recognise. Hunger?

But what interest was there in a perfectly mundane suicide? She was John's sister so yes, he supposed he had a vague link but it was suicide! There was nothing remotely useful to be gathered from her death except that maybe John might have phoned her once in a while and asked about her mental state (which, he had on good authority was not a question deemed acceptable in most if not all situations). It was logical to deduce that since many people seemed to benefit from discussing their various mental failings with therapists that if John had called his sister and she had been able to discuss her… _feelings_ then she may not have felt it necessary to…ah.

It was as if someone had turned on a light bulb in his head. And then flipped it off again.

Leaping up he began pacing then decided that this was a puzzle which required another opinion. He did not relish the idea of joining John and Mrs Hudson in the living room so instead removed his skull from Mrs Hudson's downstairs (she really ought to lock her door if she _didn't_ want Sherlock entering whenever he felt like it.) Returning to the peace of his room, he held the skull aloft and narrowed his eyes at it. His thoughts were in overdrive and he wondered briefly whether Lestrade and the others thought as much as he did? He suspected not…the skull's silence told him that he was quite correct. Not for the first time, he felt something akin to pity for them, how boring it must be in their heads. But to business!

John's relationship with his sister was what? Strained at best. Non-existent at worst. Mycroft was his…brother (the word felt distasteful even in his thoughts), but even they had contact, unwanted as it may be. So why should the death of John's sister be of any concern to Sherlock himself? There were serial killers to be outwitted, he felt a thrill at the very thought of it. He wondered vaguely whether John would rather his sister had been murdered so that he could have the thrill of working out who it was. The thought was fleeting however and even Sherlock expected he would not. But he still could not understand! Why did this matter so much?

The bony grin across from him made him feel worse. It was all so frustrating! But…John didn't care that Harry was dead. He had commented that it was tragic but he himself had made more convincing statements than _that_! And now he was sat reading the paper without a care in the world, surely he didn't mind?

His mind went into overdrive.

If John cared, then he wouldn't be sat in a chair reading the newspaper and drinking tea. He would be…what the devil _did_ people do in these situations? Drink? He could put up with that although he hoped it wouldn't involve going to a pub full of people who smelt so gloriously of smoke or a club where temptations would be…

"NO!" His voice sounded very loud in the small room and he glanced shyly at the skull, now sat on his bed. It grinned back at him as if mocking him and his incompetence in this matter. If John wanted to drink, he could so alone. Damn it, he was doing well! Absentmindedly, he slapped a fourth patch on.

Would John cry? Good God he hoped not.


	2. Guilt

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to BBC and Conan-Doyle blah blah blah.**_

**A/N: A thousand apologies for lateness, particularly because I told a lot of you lovely reviewers that I would be updating within 24 hours but due to an unforeseen lack of internet, this is being posted a lot later than expected. I do have the final chapter written but am really unhappy with it at the moment so I will endeavour to get it up over the weekend but I'm not promising anything since I'm moving house this week (hence the lack of internet – I should really have thought of it but I didn't). **

**This chapter is basically all John Watson and his thoughts on the matter but the next one should be him and Sherlock.**

**Thank you for the reviews though and as always please read and review. Constructive criticism is appreciated just as much as praise! As always, if you review, I will try and reply to all of you personally. Also, thank you for those of you who addressed the fact that I (and some of you) felt Sherlock was OOC but particularly **_**Eleanor B-F **_**who was kind enough to expand a little on the subject.**

**Oh also, very very slight use of language (p****d) if it offends you then by all means replace it in your head with 'drunk' but if you watch the show and it didn't bother you then it shouldn't here.**

* * *

John cleared his throat, casting his reflection a discerning look and frowning as he straightened his tie for the umpteenth time. He paused, staring himself in the eye and sighing before turning away from the mirror and taking up his mobile phone and a sheet of paper covered with his own minute scrawl. His finger brushed the inscription on the back of the phone and he shook his head as if to clear it. He heard Mrs Hudson downstairs fussing in the mirror whilst waiting for him to go down – though she had never met his sister, she had insisted on going with him to the funeral despite his albeit half-hearted protestations.

He wandered into the living room to where Sherlock lay, neatly stretched over the entire sofa, eyes transfixed upon the ceiling and his hands clasped over his chest like a corpse in an old film. It had to be said, to a man about to attend his only sibling's funeral, the position was hardly helpful. Blinking expectantly and drumming his fingers on his trouser leg, John waited.

Finally, after a minute's silence expect for the drumming, Sherlock lowered his eyes to gaze at the hovering man in the doorway, one eyebrow delicately quirked.

"I'm off then." John stated pointedly.

Sherlock's eyes returned to the ceiling. John nodded and his face contorted into a half-smile, half-grimace – he wasn't sure what he had expected from the man but he couldn't help feeling more than a little well, hurt. He turned to leave.

"My phone." One elegant hand was outstretched.

"Pardon?"

"My phone. Pass it to me." As always, it was not a request, John did not move. "It's over there – on the mantelpiece." Watson raised his eyebrows in disbelief, the eyes flicked back to him briefly before Sherlock – sounding greatly put-upon - added "Please."

John had to admit it was more polite than usual (which was in itself rather a disheartening thought). He slammed it into the waiting hand; piercing blue eyes stared at him as if in surprise. Again, the dark eyebrows were raised as if to say '_Something the matter?_' A heartbeat then:

"I see the skull is back." He sounded actually petulant!

"You haven't been speaking much."

Sensing that that was all the explanation he would get, Watson turned and left the flat, shaking his head and leaving the _great detective_ alone with his thoughts.

* * *

"No Sherlock with you, dear?" The landlady inquired daintily as the doctor stormed down the stairs and grabbed his coat from the sideboard.

"He's not coming." He felt guilty snapping at the woman like that but surely it was evident? Even without Holmes' powers of deduction, it must have been obvious that there was indeed no Sherlock with him. Again, he found himself wondering why he was surprised at Sherlock's lack of support when he had never shown any inclination towards emotion before. _He doesn't have friends. _

As they hailed a cab and climbed in he couldn't help feeling anger surging within him. It was true that he had never got on with Harry but she was still his sister and surely Holmes could have at least tried to act like a normal, non-sociopath on the day that he, John, was cremating her. For Christ's sake, he had a brother! Surely he could at least attempt to vaguely understand Watson's grief.

Grief. He was _grieving._ It hadn't really occurred to him. It didn't feel very much like grief – he had always imagined that grief (particularly for a family member) felt like swimming in treacle, like falling down a black tunnel and not being able to breathe properly and…other clichés that he supposed were _probably_ not universal. However he had imagined it, he had never thought he would feel so…empty. Or guilty. He had felt grief and guilt over people before: the occasional friend in Afghanistan or a patient he had become close to - he had felt guilty them but not like this. That had been Survivor's Guilt or guilt because he, as a doctor, should have been able to save them and he hadn't. But this felt…different. But Harry was the one who had made the bad choices, not him so why did _he _feel guilty?

His fingers absentmindedly traced the name on the back of his phone. _To Harry Watson._ Holmes had been right; the phone had been given as a gift and as a plea to stay in touch. _'I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him' _And he didn't approve of Harry's drinking or of her leaving Clara (nice girl, sort of woman you take home to meet your mum - unless of course you're also a girl in which case it tends to throw them a bit.) but what Holmes couldn't seem to understand was that he did not disapprove of _Harry_, never of Harry herself. Just like Mycroft did not disapprove of Sherlock, only the choices he had made. But unlike Mycroft, John had never given Harry the chance to change – to make new choices. Mycroft Holmes, though not John's favourite person was forever popping up to offer Sherlock new chances to be like him and to change the choices that he himself disapproved of.

Mycroft had gone to the trouble of essentially kidnapping John just to try and find a way of finding out what choices Sherlock was making – whether he was all right? He had had no idea why Harry had turned to drinking, only that she had and no idea that she was depressed let alone suicidal. Her last email to him in Afghanistan had said that she and Clara were having troubles, he had told her to stick it out. When she came to him in hospital in London to see how he was and to tell him that she had left her partner, he had asked the nurse to send her away without even seeing her – he already knew, Clara had come to see him earlier that day. Harry had left the phone with a note on it to call her and her new number. John had never even programmed the number in to the phone, let alone called her.

He wasn't even speaking at her funeral.

This realisation sat heavily in the pit of Watson's stomach as the cab lurched forward. His finger continued tracing the smooth back of the phone in his pocket.

_Harry._

_

* * *

_

The funeral was very short. Few people read anything and John recognised very few people who had attended – there was Clara, a few guests he recalled from their wedding and a couple of relatives he recognised but hadn't seen since they were children but apart from that he knew nobody. Clara read the eulogy and a poem through floods of tears and John noticed that she was still wearing her wedding ring and a necklace he recognised as a present from Harry. Holmes was right; people did keep gifts from ex-partners if they were the jilted party.

A man who resembled a basset hound, with dark, drooping and watery eyes read a speech slowly and with slurred words. John sat through it patiently though the man was blatantly pissed and he found himself wondering how much time Harry had spent like that – absolutely off her face on alcohol and God only knew what else, crying and with nobody listening to a word she said. He fidgeted uncomfortably, the guilt increasing tenfold. Mrs Hudson, mistaking the act for one of deepest sadness reached out one bony hand and grasped his. He smiled grimly at her and she patted his arm comfortingly.

Clara had seemed surprised when the service ended and John did not say anything; but as the casket disappeared behind the curtains she had burst into more tears and forgotten about him. He watched impassively and stood abruptly when it was over. Mrs Hudson stood close by him as he exchanged commiserations with Clara and his estranged relatives, frowned in confusion when nobody else acknowledged him as Harry's brother and trotted along after him as he walked back to the road to hail another cab. No wake had been arranged since he couldn't host it with Sherlock around and Clara had refused to host it (he supposed this was fair since she had arranged the funeral with little to no help from him despite him being Harry's next of kin) so he said his goodbyes to Clara, promising to call her sometime and then gave _221B Baker Street_ as their destination.


	3. Confusion

_****_

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or original storylines of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC television series Sherlock. All content except this particular story belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Thank you to all reviewers and to all of you are reading this despite its being many weeks overdue. The move was fine but then I had to move into my uni halls and settle in blah blah blah. This is the end of this story and hopefully you enjoyed it. Please, feel free to press that little button at the bottom which says 'review'. I will love you forever since I am currently suffering from Fresher's flu and major homesickness so a little pick me up would be nice.**

**Thanks Tia_Pixie**

* * *

John trudged up the stairs to 221B having left Mrs Hudson downstairs in her own flat. He wanted nothing more than to have a nice cup of tea and fall into bed however, even that small luxury was denied him as he entered the stark kitchenette. Every surface was covered in half full cups of tea and coffee, the contents of the coffee pot seemed to have been distributed across the entire floor and…yes. Even the milk was empty; in fact, even the glass bottle marked 'Hydrochloric Acid' was empty. He gazed nervously around him, some of the cups seemed to still be warm but he didn't fancy a trip to the emergency room on top of everything else today.

"SHERLOCK!" He yelled, pinching the bridge of nose and clenching his jaw. No reply came - he wasn't really expecting one. It seemed he was expected to be at the good detective's beck and call but his flatmate had other ideas for himself. He could go and search him out (he was probably sat in his bedroom bouncing off the ceiling and with a pack of nicotine patches anywhere he could get them to stick) but John found he really couldn't be bothered with it. Sighing, he wandered back to the landing calling "Mrs Hudson? You couldn't make me a cup of tea could you?"

"Not your housekeeper, dear."

Watson sighed, feeling completely hopeless – honestly was it such a great ask to have a cup of tea in his own home? Suddenly a shuffling sound came from the bottom of the stairs and she frowned fondly up at him.

"One biscuit or two?"

* * *

As soon as he heard the doctor's bedroom door shut, Sherlock slipped from the shadows behind the door in the downstairs flat and slid gracefully into a chair, resting his head on his hands.

Mrs Hudson (to her credit) recovered from the shock of seeing Sherlock where there was previously no Sherlock, very well. After the initial jump and "Oh my good gracious", she set about making tea for herself before settling herself at the table and handing over a dainty cup of steaming liquid to Sherlock. She sipped daintily, pointedly ignoring his penetrating gaze which was fixed on her. Finally, he too picked up his cup and drank from it, still not taking his eyes off her.

"I shan't ask how you got in." Her eyebrows raised in a slightly scolding way. "Or why you didn't come with poor John to the…"

"_Poor John_ hadn't any need of me. He had you." His tone was light but she thought she heard an almost accusing undertone. The brows indicated her further disapproval and he returned to sipping his tea in silence. Sherlock was a man so rarely plagued by any emotion, that she found herself surprised at the faint pink tinge in the young man's cheeks.

"Even so, I told you he would need you and you weren't there, dear. He was quite upset with you when he came down this morning." Again, her tone was only a little scolding, like one explaining to a small child why an act was wrong after their first offence.

"Why? I never met the woman so why should I have gone to grieve for her?"

"Not for her dear, for John."

"Mrs Hudson, I –"

"No, Sherlock. You ought to have gone." Suddenly, she seemed quite stern. It was an odd feeling for one so used to being spoken to with either derision or awe, to be…told off like a child.

Mrs Hudson gazed at the slumped shoulders and quite spectacular pout gracing the normally impassive features before collecting his cup and turning to the sink. She expected that he would stride back to his own rooms now to sulk (or rather to 'think') with as many of those patches as possible until a new case came in and he could be the one in charge again. She was therefore shocked to say the least when she heard the whispered confession from behind her.

"I don't know what to say to him."

She turned just in time to see a faint tremble in his lower lip before he raised eyes to her that were somehow defiant and vulnerable at the same time. She felt her frustration dissipate; nobody ever knew quite what to say to someone who was grieving but for Sherlock? She might just as well have told John to run a marathon and throw a javelin. Sighing and dropping her dishcloth, she sat down again. Blue eyes followed her every move, he looked hopeful and she wondered where the Sherlock everyone else knew had gone.

She looked at him encouragingly, willing him to go on but it seemed he had nothing more to say. She could tell he was trying and good grief he hated failing. She reached out one hand and placed it gently on top of his, he dropped his gaze to it, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"You don't always have to _say _anything, dear."

He seemed to consider this for a few minutes and suddenly the detective was back and the hopeless young man was gone.

He jumped to his feet, grabbing as he did so, the milk jug and the sugar from the table. Holding onto them with one hand, he collected tea and teacups from the counter. He pushed the door open with one foot, and proceeded through it yelling:

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. John will return these in the morning."

She blinked, smiled then returned to her washing up, tutting to herself as she did so.

* * *

It must have been the early hours of the morning when John Watson finally re-emerged from his bedroom, red eyed and still in his shirt and trousers. He had removed his tie and jacket almost as soon as he got in. Turning his laptop on, he considered briefly writing his blog but after staring blankly at it for an hour, he gave up and moved to his bed. Picking up a photo album from the bookshelf he lay exhausted on top of the sheets. He thumbed through it, stopping now and then to look at pictures of himself and Harry as children then teenagers and finally adults. He noticed with a pang that even as teens, their joint photos grew less and less frequent until - when he had reached one of them at her twenty-first birthday party (with girlfriend number one for both of them) - they stopped completely. After that, there was the occasional one of Harry in her punk phase with piercings and brightly coloured hair. One of her and Emma, her first serious girlfriend, dressed in leather boots but sporting t-shirts that declared 'Meat is murder!' on them, he tried to laugh but it came out choked and he settled for smiling instead. Finally, he came to Harry and Clara's wedding, both of them looking truly beautiful and beaming at the camera. He tried to recall where he was when it was taken – as her only sibling he surely should have been in the family photo? Again he felt his stomach clench with guilt, he was at the wedding but not in the official photos…he toyed with the idea that he had been the cameraman but knew it wasn't true. The final photo in the album was taken in the hospital just after he had been flown back to London. He was smiling grimly and leaning away while she tried to put her arm around him, the photo had been meant for their mother to show her that he was all right. He gazed at his sister, she had left Clara a few weeks earlier and had already given him the phone that Clara had given her – he wiped tears from his eyes and wondered whether she had been drinking and/or suicidal at that point or whether it was only recently. Not that it mattered.

He jumped abruptly when he heard footsteps, which stopped outside his door, watching and waiting to see if _the great detective _would come inside or ask him how it had gone. Anger exploded in his head when the steps receded down the steps to the kitchen. Leaping up, determined to give him a piece of his mind, John stormed to the door and flung it open. He had to stifle his yell as he almost walked straight into a very dishevelled looking Sherlock. Blinking and wiping his sleeve across his eyes, he said abruptly:

"For God's sake Sherlock, it's half past three in the morning! I was sleeping, what on earth are you doing?"

Sherlock's steady gaze bore into him as he huffed, waiting for an answer that was not at all the calm response that he got.

"No you weren't. Good night, John."

John blinked dumbfounded when a cup of tea, just the way he liked it was pushed into his hands and his flatmate turned on his heel and slipped down the stairs again to his own room.

Would the wonders never cease? Sherlock Holmes had learned to make tea.

* * *

The miracle transformation was short-lived though since when John arose late the next day he was faced with a kitchen still covered with tea, a leg of lamb quietly decomposing in a saucepan covered in what smelt faintly like his high school chemistry lab and a note which read:

_We need more tea. _

_And milk._

_Also, Mrs Hudson would like her teacups back._

_SH_


End file.
